


Thus Doth Love Speak

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Comfort, Domestic, Drabble Collection, Drama, Established Relationship, F/F, Family, Fluff, Gen, Light Angst, Masturbation, Office Sex, Other, Romance, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Smut, Tags will be added as more stories are uploaded, Tension, established Mirandy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2020-01-04 09:41:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18341087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: A collection of short drabbles; each standing on its own, no connection to one another.





	1. Contentment

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a multi-chapter fic, just a collection of drabbles too short to post alone. However, each stands on its own.
> 
> *Title is taken from the poem _Love's Language_ by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blissful weekend morning.

**Rating:** General audiences  
**Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
**Category:** F/F  
**Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters:** Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags:** Established relationship, romance, fluff  
**Word count:** 289

* * *

 

Being woken up by neck kisses, Miranda muzzily decides, is much preferable to an alarm.

"It's finally the weekend," Andrea whispers sweetly into her ear, then kisses the lobe for good measure. "No work. No kids."

"Mmm," Miranda hums and pulls on a hand, bringing it around her body until Andrea is wrapped cozily around her. Still drifting in that blissful plane between slumber and consciousness, she murmurs, "Let's get some more sleep then, shall we?"

Andrea puts up no fight, and minutes later, they're both dreaming again.

The next time Miranda wakes up, stray rays of sunlight are peeking in through the cracks in the curtains even as outside she can hear drops of rain delicately hitting the windows.

Andrea, who earlier was all too eager to wake her up, is now breathing deeply behind her, her hand clutching Miranda's. Though their snug proximity doesn't allow for much movement on Miranda's part, she turns her head as far as she can without disturbing Andrea's sleep until her gaze finds her peaceful face and her nose picks up the intoxicating scent of a shampoo she has come to associate only with Andrea.

A single ray of sunlight finds its way onto Andrea's face, and with that early morning light in the dark room and the dust particles revealed to be floating in the air, it grants Andrea an almost ethereal glow. She wears no make-up, her hair is a mess, and she looks breathtaking.

Miranda is not a very sentimental person, but right here, right now, when it's just the two of them and nothing else seems to exist, she knows only this: Andrea is lying next to her, she's holding her hand, and Miranda feels very lucky indeed.


	2. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people may call it an affair. Miranda and Andy would call it a colossal disaster.

**Rating:** Mature  
**Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
**Category:** F/F  
**Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters:** Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags:** Smut, office sex, light angst  
**Word count:** 296

* * *

 

Dress up. Panties off. Hands on the sink. They can't keep doing this.

The bathroom--Miranda's executive bathroom--has become their regular place. Their one and only place, actually, which is how they know that what they're doing isn't real and has no future or consequences. Outside the bathroom, there's no interraction unrelated to work.

It's an unspoken agreement: once a day, inside the bathroom, no words exchanged. Theirs can't even be classified a real affair because there is no such thing between them. No love, no promises, just fucking.

Yet they can't keep doing this. It's dangerous, it's bad, it could be the end of both of them. And they can't stop.

Miranda looks in the mirror as Andy slides her fingers through sleek warmth. Hot, wet, sweaty, sweet--it's always the same; she's always ready. One of them pants, the other moans, and the fingers of Andy's other hand reach for Miranda's throat, not hard enough to hurt or cut the air supply, but firm and steady, bringing her closer, her back flush against Andy's front while Andy's lips attack her neck.

It's fast and hard--it always is--no time to waste. In and out, in and out; so hot and so wet. Miranda's vision blurrs as she tries to watch them in the mirror, commit every detail to memory because, she tells herself, there won't be a next time. But she surrenders when her clit receives the stimulation it desperately craves and she closes her eyes and succumbs to sensation.

When they exit the bathroom, fully dressed and made-up, they don't speak. They don't look at each other. They don't acknowledge it. This cannot happen anymore.

But as each returns to her respective duties, they know it will. And the next time will be exactly the same.


	3. She Smells Like Jasmine and Feels Like Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's familiar and it's comforting and Andy can't get enough.

**Rating:**  Mature  
**Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
**Category:** F/F  
**Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters:**  Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
**Additional tags:**  Smut, Romance, Established relationship  
**Word count:** 583

* * *

 

Andy isn't a stranger to pleasure, but this is still so new, so exciting, that the pleasure is multiplied tenfold and she doubts it'll ever stop.

Miranda's fingers are between her legs while her other hand is grasping at her sweaty back, keeping Andy steady on her lap. They've been at it for a while--maybe a few hours, Andy's not sure, she stopped counting after the fourth orgasm, but the bedsheets are crumpled and their bodies stick together with a light sheen of perspiration. However, their earlier frenzy, the urgency and desperation to touch, feel, be as close as humanly possible, they're gone now, replaced by a kind of comforting embrace, like they have all the time in the world. Maybe they do.

Miranda's movements in the apex of Andy's thighs are slow and languid, drawing out the pleasure and making Andy almost delirious with need. Her hips chase after the guaranteed release even as Miranda alternates between pressure on her clit and slipping inside.

In the midst of it all, their lips meet in a damp, lazy kiss, sliding messily against each other. In this position, Andy towers above Miranda, just a little, and she gently cups both sides of Miranda's head and tilts it back to perfect the angle.

Her efforts last mere seconds before Miranda's fingers press against a particularly sensitive spot and she loses her concentration and succumbs to the sensations. Miranda's lips, then, slide off of hers and down to her neck, chest, breasts, kissing and mouthing at every possible piece of skin she can reach, so reverently that Andy feels it in her toes.

Her lips part to make way for a cry that refuses to leave their confines and her arms wrap around Miranda's neck and shoulders, her nose buried in soft, white hair. It smells of jasmine, a scent common enough that Andy would never have associated it with her imposing lover prior to this relationship (even though it comes in a _very_ expensive shampoo bottle). It's always eclipsed by a variety of other products used to maintain the iconic hairstyle until the flowery scent is nothing but a hint of a smell, caught once in a few intakes of breath or when the wind is blowing in the right direction.

Now, however, Miranda's hair is free and natural, only washed and blow-dried into no particular style, silvery bangs clinging to her sticky forehead. It's soft and light against Andy's skin as she lays her cheek atop it, relishes the waves of ecstasy coursing through her body.

Against her chest, Miranda exhales a deep, worshipful sigh, and with it, her ministrations become more focused and determined. Andy's fingers dig into her shoulder while hers dig into Andy's back, desperate to pull her even closer. Andy comes willingly, wrapping herself around her sweat-slicked body like vines twining themselves around a tree branch, her breathing heavy and labored while a shudder runs through Miranda--she seems to be drawing as much satisfaction from giving as she did when she was the recipient of Andy's wicked tongue and fingers.

Andy kisses her hair, her temple, her ear, and squeezes her eyes shut as the tension in her lower belly begins to unfurl and her mind becomes hazy. She weaves her fingers through the darker hairs at Miranda's nape and brings her face tighter against her chest--for whose benefit, she's not certain--and beyond the roaring in her ears, she hears Miranda's moan match her own as pleasure overcomes her body.


	4. The Tradition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's a sort of unspoken routine; having started as a mere, unacknowledged habit and grown into a tradition._

**Rating:**  General audiences  
**Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
**Category:** F/F  
**Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters:** Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags:**  Established relationship, fluff, domestic, romance  
**Word count:** 284

* * *

 

It's a sort of unspoken routine; having started as a mere, unacknowledged habit and grown into a tradition.

Miranda will come downstairs once the Book has been dropped off, take it with her to the den, and settle comfortably in her favorite chair beneath the old, black and white portraits of her daughters.

Then Andy will silently join her, reclining on the couch with a book, a magazine, or her laptop. Sometimes, a greeting or some small talk will be exchanged, but more often than not, no words are needed, and in companionable silence, they'll each absorb themselves in their respective worlds.

Until Miranda, about ten minutes into the Book's review, will wordlessly get up, cross the small space between them, and seat herself on the other end of the couch, promptly burying her eyes back in the Book.

Andy, then, will pretend that nothing has changed--even as inside she's both laughing at Miranda's feigned casualness and nonchalance and feeling a burst of love and tenderness at the oh, so very simple gesture of just wanting to be closer--and her acknowledgement will come in the mere act of resting one foot in Miranda's lap.

Miranda, without so much as lifting her eyes from the Book, will squeeze the foot and, if Andy is lucky and she's feeling generous, maybe even proceed to rub it, and both will resume their separate activities.

Most nights, by the time Miranda is finished, Andy will have already fallen asleep. Which is when Miranda will carefully wake her up with a caress or a gentle whisper and urge her to follow her upstairs.

Both knowing that the next night will be exactly the same. And the night after that.


	5. Mutual Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culmination of a tough day at work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just trying to get my writing juices flowing again.

**Rating:**  General audiences  
**Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
**Category:** F/F  
**Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
**Characters:** Miranda Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags:**  Established relationship, domestic, comfort, fluff, romance  
**Word count:** 285

* * *

 

She hears the front door slam shut, the bag and coat dropping in a flurry on the end table, and the stomping footsteps, and counts in her head to three.

"I hate my job," Andrea huffs at three, standing at the entrance to the den with messy, frustrated hair and a weary expression.

Miranda closes the Book, places it on the cushion to her left, and with her arm, beckons for Andrea to join her on the couch. "What happened now?"

With another huff, Andrea settles next to her and lets her run her fingers through the knots in her hair while she rests her cheek on the soft cashmere at Miranda's shoulder. "Spent the day chasing after a lead that turned out to be a dead end."

Miranda strokes her hair some more, but doesn't feel much sympathy, considering her day consisted of running from one budget meeting to another and her perpetual headache has just dissipated. "Such is the life of a journalist," she says and picks the Book back up onto her lap. "Love it or leave it."

"You're terrible at cheering up," Andrea grumbles in response, but burrows further into her all the same, finding a comforting spot at her breast.

"I'm sorry," Miranda says, amused, and runs her hand down Andrea's arm. "What can I do to help?"

"Mmm," Andrea sighs, rubbing her cheek against her bosom. "This will do just fine." Miranda rolls her eyes, sighs as well, but makes no move to push her away. She puts the Book aside again, settles more comfortably against the cushions, and holds Andrea as they sit in silence, the faults of the day gradually rolling off of them in gentle waves.


	6. Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caroline has a unique way of saying "I love you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not exactly Mirandy, but it's alluded.

**Rating:** General audiences  
**Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
**Category:** Gen, other  
**Relationship:** -  
**Characters:**  Caroline Priestly, Andrea Sachs  
**Additional tags:** Domestic, family  
**Word count:** 573

* * *

 

"You were never like a mother to me."

"I never tried being your mother," Andy replied neutrally, not yet looking up from her crossword puzzle. Then, after a beat, she did, and as an afterthought: "Should I be offended?"

"No," Caroline chuckled good-naturedly, stretching out across the sofa and putting her feet in Andy's lap. Andy generously began to rub them. "I'm just saying."

"Saying what?" Andy prompted, but Caroline could see the amusement in her eyes.

"Well..." she began, considering her words, "when you moved in, I was already a teenager. I had two parents. You didn't raise me or anything."

"I wouldn't have dared," Andy supplied emphatically, drawing a laugh from both of them. It went without saying that puberty had not become Caroline and Cassidy, and between rebellious piercings and screaming matches and slammed doors and secret parties, Andy was glad to have gotten a pass on the parenting front, leaving the hard work to Miranda and the girls' father and only absorbing the occasional mood swings and hateful outbursts.

That's not to say that she hadn't been involved, because when Cassidy threw up at the Milton boy's party on a school night, Andy was the one who had gotten the call to come and pick her up. And when Caroline got caught with a joint in her junior year of college, Andy had secretly driven all the way to Boston in the middle of the night to bail her out. Andy had been confided in about crushes and taken advice from on school work, and Andy had been the go-to person when someone wanted pizza for dinner or needed a partner for a video game. And when Caroline contemplated having sex for the first time with her high school boyfriend, Andy had been there to impart wisdom, provide protection, and share Caroline's joy in the aftermath.

Miranda was the parent, and she was the irreplaceable mother figure, but Andy--be it her younger age, her kind spirit, or her non-judgemental nature--had fast become the twins' confidant; something that was almost like friendship, but not quite.

"You're also not exactly a friend," Caroline affirmed contemplatively. The deep lines in her forehead indicated the serious thought she dedicated to the matter. "I mean, you're older than me, and you're my mom's partner."

"So I fall somewhere between friend and stepmother?" Andy provided, pressing harder against the heel of Caroline's foot.

"Hmm," Caroline sighed in contentment, dropping her head down on the arm on the sofa. "No... no, that doesn't sound right either." Lifting her head momentarily, she regarded Andy with narrowed eyes, pondering. "Not a parent. Not a friend. I think you're just something more."

Andy's resultant smile signaled her satisfaction with the title, lighting up her whole face. She was beautiful and she was good and Caroline was grateful to have her in her life, even if she couldn't quite place her finger on what role she was filling. Perhaps she never would, but that was okay.

Lying back down, she sighed happily. "You're just Andy."

"I'm glad you got that worked out," Andy teased and tickled her foot. A moment later, Caroline could hear the smirk in her voice when she said, "I love you, too, Caroline."

Through half-hooded eyes, Caroline peeked at her, then pursed her lips to hide a grin. She wiggled her toes to signal that Andy should continue the massage, and that she felt the same.


	7. The Day After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All she wanted was a glass of water. But in reterospect, perhaps she shouldn't have come downstairs._

**Rating:** General audiences  
 **Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
 **Category:** Gen  
 **Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs (implied)  
 **Characters:** Andrea Sachs, Stephen Tomlinson  
 **Additional tags:** Tension, drama, established Mirandy  
 **Word count:** 597

* * *

 

All she wanted was a glass of water. But in reterospect, perhaps she shouldn't have come downstairs.

His face is instantly recognizable--mostly because the majority of their encounters have had pretty traumatizing implications on Andy, this one included, maybe even at the top of the list--but it's a surprise to note that he seems to remember her as well, judging by the bewildered look on his face.

Or perhaps it's just the fact that she's wearing a silk robe that barely covers her thighs in Miranda's kitchen.

There's a long silence between them and Andy, in those instances, can hear everything around her: the humming of the fridge, the ticking of the wall clock, the cars passing by outside; she can also hear the quickening of her heartbeat and the heaviness of her breathing.

"So it's you," Stephen finally says, his voice deep and grave with the sudden realization. He doesn't sound angry exactly, unlikely to try and revisit the divorce settlement, but he's obviously not thrilled about it either. It's a morose kind of acceptance.

Andy's eyes widen. "She told you?" she asks in disbelief and tries not to feel guilty because she has no reason to.

"She didn't have to," he responds and it's likely all Andy's going to get in regards to the details of Miranda's failed marriage. She wonders if Stephen really could guess about Miranda's true feelings or if he's just trying to cover up his bruised ego in the face of this recent development. She supposes she'll never really know and that it doesn't matter anyway.

"Does Miranda know you're here?" it suddenly occurs to her to ask, because Stephen hasn't lived in the townhouse for several months, and she can only imagine how Miranda might feel about her ex-husband and current girlfriend having a conversation about her over her kitchen island, and it's pretty terrifying.

"Her assistant called. I'm guessing that's not you anymore?" Stephen cocks his head at her with a wry, almost judgemental smile that makes Andy's skin crawl. The insinuation, however misguided, is clear and she feels dirty, and feels that she's making Miranda look dirty just by standing there in her robe and talking to this man. She pulls the robe tighter around her body.

"Apparently the maid found some things of mine I forgot to take," he continues. "She said she put them in a bag for me."

Andy's eyes spot the object by the kitchen door and Stephen's gaze follows, its mention calling for their attention. Inside are the last remnants of his memory in the house, Miranda eager to erase it as if his presence was naught by a fevered dream. She's clearing her life of him, and making room for Andy.

Picking the bag up, Stephen fishes a key out of his pocket and dangles it in the air, his eyes fixed on Andy's. "I guess you'll be needing this now." He places the item on the edge of the kitchen island, then pushes it forward. Andy watches as the metal slides across the marble and stops in front of her, and doesn't dare to make a move to claim it.

Stephen smiles then, for the second time since stumbling upon her in a house he'd expected, perhaps hoped, to find empty. It's not a nice smile, though, and it's accompanied by a subtle head shake and a mirthless chuckle. "She sure moves on fast, doesn't she?" he murmurs before turning on his heel and walking away.

Behind him, Andy watches him go, walking out of the life she's taken from him.


	8. Smart, Fat Model

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miranda has a crazy idea.

**Rating:** General audiences  
 **Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
 **Category:** F/F  
 **Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
 **Characters:** Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
 **Additional tags:** Established relationship, fluff, romance  
 **Word count:** 614

* * *

 

"I want to put you in my magazine," Miranda said one day while they were lying in her bed, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Andy's ear.

"I don't know what I can write about fashion," Andy murmured in response, though for Miranda, she would do her best. She was enjoying the attention she was getting--Miranda seemed particularly affectionate today, which was an event to behold and savor--and she was willing to return the favor tenfold.

"I don't want you to _write_ for _Runway_ ," Miranda corrected with the all-too-familiar "stop being an idiot" glare, but even that was affectionate. "I want to put _you_ in _Runway_."

Her forehead crinkling in confusion, Andy tried to decipher just what the hell Miranda was talking about, but refrained from questioning her; it was a miracle she'd even deigned to repeat herself once. Then it hit her. "Oh."

"Mmm," Miranda confirmed and moved on to trace her shoulder with her fingertips.

"I don't know if I'm really... _Runway_ material."

She might have been talking to a wall. "We'll put you in a black gown... no, red, that'll go better with you skin... put your hair up..." Miranda was back to touching her hair, though not with the intention of styling it into any particular 'do. "Shoes... _Gucci_ , I think. We'll take the ones we gave Chloe and give them to you. And Michael Kors has some breathtaking accessories this season; you'll look beautiful."

"Not fat?" Andy asked with a raised, challenging eyebrow and a teasing smirk.

"Mmm," Miranda hummed again and ran her eyes up and down her naked body, carefully studying her figure. "We can hide that in Photoshop."

The smack that she received on her arm reverberated through the room, as did Andy's laughter. "Hey!"

Rolling her eyes, Miranda pulled her close. "I don't think you're fat."

"Yeah, you do. You told me," she argued good-naturedly. It was, after all, water under the bridge now, something she could look back on and laugh about. Andy had never minded her weight, never thought of herself as big or heavy, and outside the _Runway_ offices, nobody did. The fact that Miranda had deemed her body attractive enough to lick from head to toe just minutes before was enough to tell her that it didn't matter one bit what she thought of it either.

"When?" Miranda asked, outraged.

"When I worked for you. You also told me I was smart," she added with a cheeky grin.

"I don't remember any of that," Miranda said resolutely, which meant she was lying. It was okay, though, because it really didn't matter.

It would matter, though, to the designers, photographers, editors, hell, even the clackers littering the halls of _Runway_ if Miranda tried to make her one of them. Which Andy really didn't want. "I'm not a model, anyway. And I'm pretty sure nepotism is frowned upon." She gave Miranda her own playfully accusatory glare.

"Says who?" replied Miranda in her best snooty, entitled tone. "It's my magazine, I can do whatever I want with it."

Andy didn't know if she was actually, genuinely being serious or if this was a Miranda Priestly type of humor she had yet to experience, but it seemed that Miranda wasn't letting go of the subject any time soon and, Andy concluded, drastic measures were needed.

"How 'bout," she drawled, "we stop talking about _Runway_ ,"--she threw one leg over Miranda's hips and leaned down, her hair falling around her face like a curtain--"and you do whatever you want with me, now."

Miranda must have thought she made a compelling argument, because she wrapped her arms around her body, pulled her down, and kissed her.


	9. Steam Shower

**Rating:** Explicit  
 **Archive warning:** No archive warnings apply  
 **Category:** F/F  
 **Relationship:** Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs  
 **Characters:** Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly  
 **Additional tags:** Smut, masturbation, sexual fantasy, shower sex  
 **Word count:** 936

* * *

 

You feel the sudden, hot burst of water on your skin and you close your eyes. And think of her.

Her picture in your head is just like in real life: distant, just out of reach, but breathtakingly stunning all the same.

In the real world, she's unattainable, a charming fantasy of various what ifs; in here, she's all yours, coming up behind you, stepping under the decadent spray of water. Her skin is soft and smooth against yours, and you lean back against the wall, feeling warmth instead of the chill of the tiles. You tilt your head back, making room for the water to massage your skin with tingling touches, and she runs her lips down your neck, wetting it with her tongue.

You feel her touch on your shoulder, your collar bone, your upper arm, and you think of her fingers, of that electric feeling of them brushing against yours over the exchange of coffee cups or the handing of a purse. Her hands are tender but sure, begging to be touched, begging to touch _you_ , and she's touching you right now, gently palming a breast while her lips whisper light kisses across your shoulder.

When she squeezes your breast, your nipple pebbles and hardens against her palm, and when you do it again, imagining--feeling--her hand, her touch, your stomach clenches, a lingering ache in your core.

You can feel her breath against your neck as your free hand travels down your stomach, tickling where it touches. She settles on your mons, right above where you want her, fingers softly brushing through trimmed curls. You know she'll give you what you want if you let her, and yet you prolong it, never wanting the fantasy to end.

Instead, you arch into the touch with a needy sigh, and as a reward, your nipple is pinched. As the cascading water muffles the sound of your moan, you move your hand lower and her fingers gently part you; not yet touching where you need, not yet applying any sort of pressure, but lightly stroking up and down, making you wish for it more with every passing second.

When you push down against the hand, she brushes a finger once against your clit, and when you buck, crying out, she whispers in your ear, "Shhh..." She knows what you need.

She plays your body like a pro: the hand on your breast squeezes and caresses while down south she urges you to spread your legs wider, starts stroking you in earnest. Her touch is warm and solid against you, producing more moisture than you thought possible under the shower head, and she pays special attention to every one of your sensitive spots, knowing them and what they do to you by heart.

Your neck elongates, your hair pasting itself to the damp wall behind you, when a single finger breaches you, and if you could form a sound to do the sensation justice, you would, but you're too breathless. Besides, your mouth is otherwise preoccupied, because while a second digit teases your opening, a tongue finds its way onto your parted lips, licking and tasting but never going inside, just like its counterpart between your legs.

You lose all semblence of coherent thought when both fingers are pulled away and thrust in at once while her thumb presses down on your clit, and all that's left in your head is her image, her face, seductive and beautiful and driving you out of your mind.

You can't stop the incessant moaning as she pumps in and out of you in a rhythmic pace, all the while massaging your clit. You close your eyes and see stars behind your eyelids and you think that she really might end up driving you insane, and maybe you already are. You don't care. All you can think about is that building pleasure inside you, the sensation of her hands touching and feeling, doing whatever they want.

You think you can't take any more, you think you're about to burst, but she seems to have a different idea because on a down stroke, she adds a third finger that pushes back in with the other two, filling you up. You stretch, you burn, but even that is good and you welcome the new girth with an almost primal groan. In the meantime, her other hand alternates between breasts, truly making you crazy. Your skin comes alive with newfound nerves wherever she touches, the scalding water covering the areas she doesn't reach, and in the back of your mind you think that there just might be such a thing as too much pleasure to bear because your whole body is aflame, tightly coiled and bracing for the moment it'll erupt in flames.

Then, before you can spontaneously combust, she curls her fingers inside you, rubs hard at your clit, and whispers your name into your ear, her breath hot and damp against your skin. It's that last act that finally allows you to let go, to arch and rock and go mad while your body spasms and shakes with the force of your orgasm.

When you come to, opening your eyes into the blaring light of the bathroom, the water is starting to get cold, dropping unpleasant droplets onto your sensitized skin, and one hand is limp over your breast while the other is starting to cramp, covered in moisture between your legs.

Your breathing begins to regulate, everything grows quieter, calmer, and even as the world is righting itself on its axis, you still hear her voice whispering in your ear, " _Andrea_."


End file.
